


New Tricks

by QueenNeehola



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, During Canon, M/M, No Spoilers, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Swordplay, Teaching, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28194927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenNeehola/pseuds/QueenNeehola
Summary: Cyrus begins, still wavering, “I have noticed, as we have traversed this region, that my magic seems to have very little effect on many of the creatures here.  And, as I plan to travel to Quarrycrest in the future, I worry that I may not get very far on my own merit.”Understanding dawns in Therion’s mind like the sun across the red cliffs.  He has always liked the sunrise; the sure, inevitability of it, occurring daily no matter what else is happening in the world.Cyrus is a little bit like that, he thinks suddenly.  Inevitable.  Or more like inescapable.  And definitely less pleasant than the sunrise.
Relationships: Cyrus Albright/Therion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	New Tricks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LunarExo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunarExo/gifts).



> somehow this is the first gift fic i have ever explicitly written for [my darling qpp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunarExo)!! ilysm and i hope you enjoy this fic! i'm sorry i had to keep it secret from you for so long ;w;  
> (this was originally an "erotic sparring" idea that we briefly talked about a long time ago, however it ended up a lot less erotic and with a lot less actual sparring...sorry)

As much as Therion prefers his solitude, there is something to be said for travelling with a scholar and a cleric. Since he was ushered into the company of Cyrus and Ophilia - H’aanit remains a mystery for now - he has enjoyed the merits of their easily garnered respect, and reputation, and money.

_Though not enough money to afford an inn for the night_ , he thinks bitterly, heaving and struggling with tent poles.

But it’s still preferable to sleeping rough through the chilly Cliftlands nights. And if he doesn’t get the tarp aligned quite right, and there’s a little bit of a gap letting in a draught as he tries to sleep, well at least he’s working up a sweat right now. Unlike Cyrus, who is...well, Therion doesn’t know what he’s doing. Nor does he care. 

The women have gone off in search of, as H’aanit put it, “nourishment,” though what they hope to find in the barren landscapes that counts as a filling meal is beyond Therion. The two men were, therefore, left to make camp, though only Therion seems to be following orders so far. More fool him, really. But he’s not sure he wants to get on the wrong side of H’aanit or her pet leopard.

On cue, he hears the click of Cyrus’s shoes approaching. His shoulders tense. He forces them back down. The insufferable man probably has some more _pointers_ to give him. Earlier in the afternoon he had tried to direct Therion’s meagre attempts at magic and they had both almost had their faces chewed off by a hyaena. Linde had ripped its guts open before it got to that point, but still. The indignity of it still makes Therion’s skin prickle.

He has only been travelling with Cyrus for a few days, and it has done nothing to remedy the instant dislike he took to the man. Scholars, they’re all the same.

“Therion?” Cyrus’s voice is smaller than Therion expects when it comes. That in itself is enough to make Therion turn, though even as he shifts to face Cyrus he’s already berating himself.

Cyrus looks...uncertain, to the point he seems almost pained by it, his face contorted oddly. He looks as small as he had sounded, somehow; Therion had learned early that the man speaks in grand gestures, his arms sweeping statements aside as soon as he speaks them to make room for the new words his fingers constantly pluck out of the air. Now, with his hands clasped and wringing in front of him, there’s nothing grand about him. He’s hunched, awkward.

_Shy_ , Therion’s mind provides, and he almost laughs aloud. He has already come up with several words to describe Cyrus Albright, some less complimentary than others, but _shy_ is not one of them.

“What do you want?” he asks, just on the edge of annoyance. “Am I doing it wrong?”

Cyrus looks perplexed until Therion waves a tent pole at him for emphasis, then his expression clears with a sort of absent wonder as he takes in the mess of fabric and metal behind Therion, like he hadn’t noticed it at all.

“Oh, no, carry on, please,” Cyrus says. “You’re doing, er, fine.”

That’s a blatant lie. It’s enough to tip Therion over the precipice into fully aggravated. “Then what _is_ it?”

Cyrus snaps to attention then, meeting Therion’s eyes with a newly focused clarity. He unclasps then clasps his hands together again. His mouth opens, closes, opens, and he says, “I wanted to ask you a favour.”

Oh-ho. Now _that’s_ interesting. “And just what kind of favour could a respectable scholar want of a thief?”

Cyrus’s eyebrows furrow for a moment, as though he wants to object - he’s already heaped plenty of flattery onto Therion’s skills, and if Therion hadn’t instantly pegged him as earnestly clueless he’d almost think he’s trying to get somewhere - but then they smooth out again and his gaze flicks away before dragging back to somewhere that isn’t quite Therion’s eyes.

He begins, still wavering, “I have noticed, as we have traversed this region, that my magic seems to have very little effect on many of the creatures here. And, as I plan to travel to Quarrycrest in the future, I worry that I may not get very far on my own merit.”

Understanding dawns in Therion’s mind like the sun across the red cliffs. He has always liked the sunrise; the sure, inevitability of it, occurring daily no matter what else is happening in the world.

Cyrus is a little bit like that, he thinks suddenly. Inevitable. Or more like inescapable. And definitely less pleasant than the sunrise.

Cyrus continues, “And so I was wondering if you would perhaps...care to show me how to wield a blade? Purely for self-defence, you understand.”

Therion had known the question was coming. Cyrus wears his thoughts plain on his face and carries his emotions in every inch of him. Therion had known. And yet his sharp tongue has dulled to stone in his mouth and won’t move. He won’t laugh in Cyrus’s face like he should.

Instead, after a drawn-out moment of watching Cyrus’s fingers fumble over themselves, Therion says, “Why don’t you ask H’aanit? Surely a bow would be better for you.”

“I’m afraid I have already discounted that option,” Cyrus sighs. “I...lack the upper body strength to make much use of a bow, and I fear neither she nor I have the time to wait while I attempt to develop it.” 

(It’s clear to Therion, suddenly, that Cyrus’s momentary pause was more shame at admitting his physical weakness than thinking seriously on Therion’s suggestion. Clearly, he has prepared himself for this conversation. Which likely means he’s prepared himself for Therion’s arguments, too. Touché, Professor.)

“There is also the matter of H’aanit only carrying her own weapon, which I dare not strip her of to practise with,” Cyrus says. “You, on the other hand, seem cautious enough to carry almost more blades than seems necessary. Am I wrong?”

Oh, he’s good. Annoyingly so. That there’s a hint of genuine triumph in his voice already, and yet that he somehow avoids sounding smug, makes it all the worse.

Therion casts the tent pole aside. As tempting as it might be to utilise blunt force against Cyrus to shut him up, something other than annoyance is tugging at Therion’s mind too now, something that entices the corners of his mouth up into something that’s almost a smile. He points them back down.

“Fine,” he says, but puts a hand up when Cyrus predictably brightens, silencing him before he can rain some manner of thanks and praise down upon Therion. “If - and only _if_ \- you can tell me just _how_ many blades I apparently have hidden on me. Then, I’ll show you how to use one of them. How does that sound, Professor?”

Therion isn’t sure if it’s the use of his title that makes Cyrus’s eyes sparkle or the potential of solving this problem put before him, but he barely has time to ruminate on it before the scholar’s expression changes once more, turning serious and intensely thoughtful.

_Intense_ is the right word, Therion thinks. He’s seen Cyrus employ this tactic a few times already; in Bolderfall when he practically forced the poor citizens to spill what dirt they had on the Ravus estate - and for no other reason than to help Therion, too. But this is the first time Therion himself has been on the receiving end of it.

Cyrus’s scrutiny feels almost invasive: his eyes seem sharper, alight with concentrated interest, and yet it’s somehow worse when he looks away from Therion’s face to examine the rest of him. His gaze flicks across Therion’s body, hovering where there might be a dagger concealed, focusing on the sword Therion keeps at his hip.

Therion feels uncomfortably warm despite the cooling afternoon. He wonders, vaguely, if this is how everyone feels when Cyrus looks at them like this, like they’re staring at the sharp end of a nocked arrow, just waiting for the twang of the bowstring; like freezing under the glowing stare of something that is just biding its time until it can pounce, carving and scraping its way inside.

Therion had laughed when Ophilia had tactfully put herself between Cyrus and a few tavern patrons he’d been interrogating.

Now, he gets it.

His mouth feels dry.

It isn’t even that Cyrus is studying his figure so fiercely that, had it been anyone else, Therion would have suspected ulterior motives. It’s that it somehow feels like Cyrus is looking _deeper_ , trying to peel back Therion’s skin and sinew and bone and brick walls until he’s almost sure names and places Cyrus shouldn’t know are about to come tumbling past his lips.

What actually comes out of Cyrus’s mouth is, “Four.”

Therion blinks himself back to the moment, the canyon breezes, the smell of dust and fading heat. Cyrus is still looking at him, but the ferocity Therion had imagined is gone.

He repeats, a little dazed, “Four?”

“I say you carry four blades,” Cyrus clarifies. Right, that’s what they were talking about. A sudden flush of self-consciousness sweeps through Therion, but Cyrus seems blissfully ignorant, too caught up in explaining his conclusion. “There is the dagger you favour, and your sword as well. You keep a shorter blade alongside your sword but use it less often. I have seen no concrete evidence of a fourth blade, but I would imagine a person such as yourself would find it prudent to keep at least one other concealed weapon for, ah, emergencies.”

“Wrong,” Therion says.

Cyrus’s face drops comically. “Am I?”

“It’s five, actually. I’ll leave it to your imagination where I hide the fifth one.”

From another man, _to_ another man, it might have been considered flirting. But Therion is not about to flirt with Cyrus Albright.

Nor does Cyrus seem to think it flirtation - instead his eyes are narrowed to searching slits, regarding Therion’s shoes, then his wrists, then the large percentage of his body hidden by his poncho, obviously trying to surmise where he could be hiding another blade.

The answer is nowhere. Therion only carries four, like Cyrus had said.

But Cyrus doesn’t need to know that.

“So, what kind of weapons are you interested in?”

Cyrus rouses from his musing slowly, then all at once, blinking rapidly as his brain turns from one line of thought to another, and then his eyes widen as Therion’s words sink in. “I thought you said—”

“Chalk it up to my newfound charitable nature,” Therion cuts in, and Cyrus is either too oblivious to notice the self-deprecating edge to his voice, or too kind to mention it. “Plus I’d rather the handiest spell-slinger among us didn’t get his insides moved to his outsides because he couldn’t stand up to a birdian.”

Cyrus goes an amusing mix of red and green.

“So what’ll it be?” Therion goes on. “Dagger? Sword?” He produces his dagger on cue, twirling it around his fingers for show. Cyrus’s eyes follow it, and Therion doesn’t miss the small, awed widening of them. Envy from a scholar. How novel.

But Cyrus says, “Sword, I think.”

Therion gets it. Most people would pick a sword when given the option. Cyrus probably has notions of chivalry, or some other rubbish. It would have been fun - and _funny_ \- to try and teach him some knife tricks, though. Perhaps one day, Therion thinks - and then retracts the thought instantly. He does not plan to travel with this man, or anyone, for any considerable length of time.

“Good choice,” he remarks, unfastening his sword and tossing it to Cyrus.

The scholar makes a sort of little yelp, catching it awkwardly like it might somehow cut him through the sheath. His arms dip as it lands in them too, and Therion tries not to smirk too obviously. It isn’t the heaviest sword, and Therion isn’t the strongest person, but Cyrus has probably never lifted anything more taxing than a book in his life.

He’s just as awkward as he unsheathes the sword, holding it reverently before himself. “Sturdy steel. Where did you happen upon such a blade?”

“Stole it from a merc,” Therion replies. The disapproving frown Cyrus gives him is delightful. “Don’t worry, he had a spare. Probably.”

Therion takes the shorter sword from his waist and spins it idly before settling it into his grip. He points it at Cyrus. “Now, show me whatcha got.”

“What I— I don’t _have_ anything,” Cyrus protests. “I’ve never wielded a sword before. I was rather hoping we might begin with the basics.”

“I’m not gonna _stab_ you,” Therion says. “I just want to see what you think you should do with it first. See where we need to start.”

And it’ll probably be funny, he doesn’t say.

It _is_ funny, when Cyrus takes up an awkward, stiff stance, holding the sword far too tightly and outstretched, like he thinks he might somehow run himself through with it.

It’s even funnier when he decides to go for a wide swing and the weight of the weapon proves too much for him, pulling him with it. His feet falter and he does that stupid yelp again, and Therion decides to put him out of his misery before he really does end up injuring himself.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t have a little fun with it.

He moves easily into Cyrus’s space, then around and behind him on the other side of where he’s still fumbling with the sword. He puts his own blade away and instead takes a handful of Cyrus’s coat and yanks hard.

As expected, Cyrus stumbles, and Therion deftly disarms him and sticks his foot out just in time for Cyrus to go tumbling backwards over it, momentarily and hilariously airborne before going down hard on his rear.

Therion swings a leg over his prone body, straddling him, and points the stolen sword down at him, hovering just shy of his throat. When Cyrus recovers enough to notice this, he goes very still, but his displeasure is plain on his flushed, handsome face.

Therion smirks. “So, from the very beginning then.”

“I see your plan was to humiliate me from the start,” Cyrus says.

Therion does not - cannot - deny this. “Hey, you asked to be taught.” He lifts the blade away from Cyrus’s neck and hefts it to rest the flat against his own shoulder instead. “I’m just showing you what you’ve got coming.”

“I suppose I should have expected such dirty tactics.”

“You flatter me.”

Therion moves off of Cyrus, but the scholar remains unmoving save for lifting a hand, like he thinks Therion might help him up. He doesn’t, and Cyrus huffs softly and goes a little pinker before scrambling to his feet alone and patting the dust from his clothes. His hair is dishevelled and hanging loose in its tie, where a handful of strands have escaped to stick to the side of his face. It looks good, somehow.

Therion turns away. “First, ditch that awful coat. It’ll just get in the way. Then I’ll show you how to actually hold this thing.”

Contrary to Therion’s expectations, Cyrus makes no sounds of complaint or offence at being ordered around, and by the time Therion turns back to him he has not only stripped himself of his outer layer but rolled up his shirt sleeves as well.

At least he’s eager.

He hasn’t removed his waistcoat though, and by the Twelve does it _cling_. Therion wonders how he can breathe in the thing even before exerting himself by swinging a sword around. Well, it’s his funeral. And Therion can’t really imagine him without it. The man wears so many layers that he seems strangely naked with just one missing. Therion has never seen his _arms_ before.

“Here,” Therion says, handing off the sword. Cyrus’s hands are stupidly soft as they brush his. He’s going to get blisters for sure. “Now, show me again how you think you should hold it.”

* * *

“No,” Therion sighs for the fifth time. “I knew you scholar types were all stiff, but this is pathetic. _Relax_ a little.”

Cyrus almost bristles - Therion sees the minute rise of his shoulders, the slight downward twitch of his mouth - but stops himself in time. He really is dedicated to this, Therion thinks. Not all talk, then.

On the other hand, Therion’s dedication to the novelty of Cyrus wielding a sword is starting to wear thin. They’ve been at it over half an hour now, the tents-to-be still lying in heaps of tarp and metal somewhere behind them, and they haven’t gotten beyond how to hold the damned thing consistently.

Cyrus says, “It is rather hard to relax when one is holding half a metre of sharpened steel.”

Therion’s teeth grit. “ _Try_. Loosen your grip a little.”

Cyrus does so, and the hilt slips dangerously through his fingers.

“Not _that_ loose,” Therion snaps. Cyrus flinches, and his knuckles go white with the renewed force of his grip. “Oh, for the love of— Here.”

Therion steps towards Cyrus and thrusts his hand between them. Cyrus looks at it. Therion wiggles his fingers.

“Shake my hand.”

Cyrus regards his open palm with badly concealed suspicion. Perhaps he thinks Therion’s imaginary fifth knife might be hiding up his sleeve. “Isn’t it a little late for introductions?”

Therion rolls his eyes. “Just do it.”

Hesitantly, Cyrus swaps the sword wholly to his left hand and takes Therion’s waiting hand in his right. His is larger, his fingers almost brushing the inside of Therion’s wrist and his thumb clasped easily over the top of Therion’s hand. He does not squeeze, but his grip is firm and practised. His palm is warm with sweat, but it doesn’t feel as disgusting as Therion thought it might.

“Perfect,” Therion says. When he looks up from their joined hands, Cyrus does the same, but his expression is one of puzzlement to Therion’s triumph. “Hold it like that.”

“Oh,” Cyrus says, and his face clears. His brows unfurrow and lift, his lips part around the soft exhalation, and his eyes brighten as they flick back down to their handshake. This time, he does squeeze, ever so slightly.

Therion pulls his hand away.

“Now,” he says, drawing his short sword again, “let’s see if you can get it right this time.”

* * *

Cyrus is a quick learner, Therion will give him that. He probably should have expected it; that Cyrus, with all his boundless enthusiasm for anything he doesn’t already know, would be an avid student, but in Therion’s mind scholars were all pompous, blustering fools who liked the sound of their own voices too much and looked down upon those they saw as beneath them.

Cyrus is still a pompous, blustering fool who likes the sound of his own voice too much, but as Therion steps in to kick his feet further apart yet again, he only apologises with a strange humbleness, and when his nose wrinkles it isn’t out of contempt but concentration.

Perhaps this one scholar is just a little different.

* * *

“You’re holding it too tight again,” Therion says. “Your elbow’s all stiff. That’s how you wind up with a broken arm.”

At his words, all the awkward stiffness goes out of Cyrus - and there’s a lot of it - and the man almost _deflates_. An unusual sound of irritation leaves him, and Therion finds himself swallowing a smile.

“Can you show me again?” Cyrus asks.

Therion sighs, but it’s all theatrics. He isn’t irritated in the slightest, for reasons he can’t quite fathom. Maybe Cyrus’s endless drive to learn is affecting him. Or maybe watching a gangly scholar try to wield a blade is just more fun than putting up tents. Either way, Therion nods.

“Okay, feet apart,” he orders. “Wider. Yeah, there. Right foot back a little—no, you’re too heavy. I said _springy_.” Cyrus obediently bounces a little on the balls of his feet. “Now hold the sword near your right hip. Forward a little—point the blade up. Imagine it’s pointing at someone’s neck.”

Cyrus gives him a wide-eyed look. “I thought I was to be fighting _creatures_.”

“Humans are creatures,” Therion answers with a shrug, “and they’re more likely to be trying to stab you back, in my experience. Better to get in there first.”

Cyrus looks alarmed. Therion grins and walks towards him, careful to stay out of his shaky range, and ducks behind him.

“But you’re still too stiff,” Therion says, and prods Cyrus hard between the shoulder blades.

Cyrus yelps and jerks. The sword jerks too, and if he’s suddenly missing a centimetre or two off his fringe, then it’s entirely his fault for not having a better grip.

“Therion—” Cyrus’s head begins to turn, but Therion just nudges him and he almost stumbles. His footing isn’t steady either, then.

“It’s not good to take your eyes off the enemy,” Therion warns.

“My enemy seems to be behind me.” It’s the closest he’s come to complaining. Therion almost laughs.

“I’m trying to help you, remember? Now relax your shoulders a bit.”

They do lower a fraction, but Therion can still see the tension drawn across them plain as day. Or plainer, since the day is rapidly waning now. Therion puts a hand atop each of Cyrus’s shoulders and heaves them down. “I said _relax_.”

This time, they drop with some reluctance, but eventually Cyrus doesn’t look like he’s been carved from stone quite so much. With some of the tension forcibly removed from his posture, he settles more naturally onto the balls of his feet too. Therion hums approvingly. He’ll be easier to manoeuvre like this.

“Try this now,” Therion says, and steps forward against Cyrus’s back. He’s shorter, so it’s awkward trying to reach around Cyrus and keep an eye on what he’s doing at the same time, but he manages to curl his fingers around Cyrus’s right wrist. He urges, “Tilt it down. Slowly,” and guides Cyrus’s grip.

The scholar is stiller and more quiet than Therion has experienced up until now. He’s malleable and lets himself be repositioned, but he keeps a firm grip on the hilt, straightening one arm and bending the other at Therion’s instruction until the blade is pointed at the ground between his legs instead, at an angle and with the tip hovering just shy of making contact.

“There,” Therion announces, triumphant. That had been easier than he’d expected. With a smirk, he adds, cheek pressed somewhat awkwardly against Cyrus’s side as he peers around him, “That one’s good for taking people by surprise. They don’t know where you’re coming from.”

“Again, I was under the assumption this was for self-defence against monsters,” Cyrus replies, almost deadpan, and the suddenness of his shift in tone strikes Therion’s funny bone hard and unexpectedly.

He snorts, then starts to laugh proper, the surprising weight of his sudden mirth toppling him further against Cyrus’s back. The scholar staggers, losing his balance enough for the sword to drop and the point to _clang_ against the ground. At that, he begins to chuckle too, and the sound only fuels Therion’s silly, breathless giggles more, and on it goes until they’re both laughing in unison at nothing in particular.

It’s weird. It should be weird. Therion hasn’t laughed, not _properly_ , not beyond sniggers of contempt, for longer than he can remember. By all accounts, this should be awkward. He should hate it. He should be mortified.

But he isn’t, and Cyrus’s quiet laughter rumbles through him, vibrating back into Therion’s chest even through that stupid waistcoat—and his shoulders, which were pulled taut with worry and effort just moments before, are shuddering with easy hilarity—and Therion lurches forward like something has pulled him, and they both take some tottering steps, Therion still holding Cyrus holding the sword, until Cyrus digs the blade into the ground proper and halts them, and then there’s a clammy hand holding Therion’s arm, and Therion’s cheek slides against the smooth, probably expensive material of Cyrus’s shirt, and he smells like Cliftlands dirt and sweat—and they both stop laughing.

Cyrus’s breaths come a little heavier than normal, and Therion moves against him in time with them, though he doesn’t feel himself breathe. Cyrus feels sturdier than Therion would have ever given him credit for - his clothing and mannerisms give him an eccentric, floaty air, like a stiff breeze would blow him over, and certainly his shaky sword stance had done nothing to change than impression; but here and now his back is firm, his posture unmoving now that he’s found his balance again. The warmth of exertion radiates from him. To Therion, who has always hated the cold, it’s oddly comforting.

Enticing.

“I think that’s enough,” Therion says, and disentangles himself. He steps away from Cyrus. His hands retreat under his poncho. He turns his back. “You’ve got the basics. You should at least be able to hit anything you can’t set on fire.”

“My magic is not just about setting things on fire, Therion.” He can almost hear the frown in Cyrus’s voice. It makes him smile.

“Yeah, well, it gets the job done.”

Cyrus huffs but does not argue further, and then there’s the sound of shuffling and sliding as he retrieves the sword’s sheath and makes obviously fumbling attempts to put the blade away. Therion can’t resist turning to look. He _is_ fumbling. Therion’s smile gets a little bigger.

“Here,” he says, and takes both items from Cyrus’s willing hands. In a smooth motion, he has the blade safely sheathed; in another it is firmly reattached to his belt.

Cyrus has that strangely awed look in his eyes again. “Thank you.”

“No problem. It’d be a shame if after everything, you cut your hand off trying to put the damn thing away.”

Cyrus laughs at that. Therion hadn’t really taken him for the humorous type when they first met - at least, not _purposely_ \- but he might have to change his mind about that. He’s laughed a lot in the past hour or so, from little breathy chuckles to the full-on giggle fit they’ve both just recovered from.

Therion hadn’t really taken himself for the humorous type, either.

“Not just for that,” Cyrus says, “but for agreeing to teach me at all. I am aware I’m not the most elegant in anything aside from spellcraft.”

“You think?” Therion says, and Cyrus chortles again. Maybe Therion should see how much he can make him laugh in a day. It might be a fun way to pass the time. And finding out how to push some of the scholar’s buttons might come in handy someday. “Nah, you’re a quick learner. A few more lessons and you could hire yourself out as a merc.”

“More lessons?” Cyrus visibly brightens. Uh-oh. Bad time for Therion to lose grip on his tongue. “You would teach me again?”

“Uh— I mean—”

“Oh, Ophilia! H’aanit!” Cyrus interrupts, looking over Therion’s shoulder.

Therion quietly thanks whichever of the Twelve was responsible for their companions’ perfect timing...except, when he swivels on his heel, neither of the women are anywhere to be seen. But then why did Cyrus—

Therion feels a hand fist in the fabric of his poncho, and the answer becomes clear. It becomes even clearer a moment later when that hand pulls, and it’s not just gravity and momentum but karmic retribution that yanks Therion off-balance and wheeling backwards. Usually he would never be caught so off-guard. But alone in the vast, echoing Cliftlands with Cyrus Albright he had left himself vulnerable. Because Cyrus Albright is anything but a threat. Cyrus Albright is…

Cyrus is smiling down at him where he landed on his ass, trying and failing to contain his obvious and victorious mirth. Smug, awful prick. Scholars, they’re all the same. And this one is ten times worse.

That does not explain why Therion is grinning too, even as he says, “Asshole.”

“Not at all,” Cyrus objects. “Study, hypothesise, and test is the basis of all research and learning. I was merely testing a hypothesis I had formed based on studying your...tactics.” He holds out a hand, and his expression goes softer, tinged with genuine concern. It’s atrocious. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

The sword sheath had clipped his thigh rather painfully when he went down, and it’s probably going to leave a bruise...but Cyrus doesn’t need to know that.

“Shut up,” Therion says, and takes Cyrus’s offered hand.

* * *

“Therion,” H’aanit says when she and Ophilia return not fifteen minutes later, “if I may asken thee a question.”

Therion, back to struggling with the tent poles, nods. (Cyrus had gotten out of helping yet again, somehow, by discussing with Ophilia how best to proceed to their next destination.)

“Linde, Ophilia and I were away and back again afore the sun had fully set,” H’aanit says, slowly, like she’s picking her words, “and yet, upon our return, thou had not yet raised camp for the night. May I asken why?”

Therion doesn’t look at her. There’s no point, anyway - he learned quickly that he can’t read her. Her face is as impassive as that of her leopard’s and just as unnerving. It’s easier to reply with his gaze fixed on his work. It’s easier to be truthful too, though he’s not sure why he feels like he should be. “Cyrus wanted to learn how to use a sword. I was teaching him a little.” Then, not entirely sincere but not insincere either, “Sorry.”

“It is no great thing,” H’aanit replies, but there’s a new note in her voice. It sounds almost like surprise, and Therion wants to turn and see if the blank slate of her face has finally cracked. She pauses. Therion clicks the final pieces of the tent pole together and begins sliding it through the tarp. “If thou wouldst prefer, I could show Cyrus the way of the bow. It may be easier for him than—”

“No,” Therion says. If H’aanit is taken aback by the suddenness of his answer, she doesn’t say so. If Therion is, he doesn’t either. He doesn’t say anything more, except to add, unconvincingly, “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“I see,” H’aanit replies, just as unconvincingly.

After that, she leaves to start the fire and skin and roast whatever poor creature they’d brought back with them. Therion didn’t ask. Sometimes it’s better not to know.

But when Cyrus sits next to Therion at dinner and regales the group with his newfound interest in swordsmanship, smattering flattery for Therion’s technique and mind and patience into every other sentence, Therion feels the huntress’s sharp eyes piercing his flesh more than the tip of any blade. She probably won’t ask, but Therion feels the roll of her curiosity and accusations anyway. Cyrus, still running his mouth, his long shadow gesturing excitedly behind him as he goes on, evidently does not. Therion sinks further into the shadow of the cliff-face.

This had been a terrible idea.

**Author's Note:**

> [find me on twitter!](https://www.twitter.com/QueenNeehola)


End file.
